


The Fairest

by joannabelle



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: But Mairon learns this the hard way, Crack, Drugging, M/M, Melkor's redecoration skills are questionable, With a side of rimming, angbang, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 12:05:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4262649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joannabelle/pseuds/joannabelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sauron just wants to get his paperwork finished.  </p><p>Naturally, Melkor decides this is the perfect time to redecorate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fairest

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own it!  
> Rating: Explicit  
> Warnings: Dub-con, gratuitous sex, rimming (hell yeah), drug references – just, basically, a whole lot of PWP – and some fucked up, ridonculous décor.  
> Notes: So, a while ago on Tumblr this post went around (http://cherryandcheek.tumblr.com/post/120841630911/melkorwashere-officialmorgoth-i-love-the-map) – and let’s just say, the idea has haunted me ever since. And, inevitably, this rubbish was the result.

 

“Over there.”  
  
From the iron throne upon which he lazes, Melkor flicks a finger in the direction of the back wall of Angband’s innermost chamber.  
  
The Orc guards shuffle further to the left.  
  
Between the pair – and screeching across the polished marble floor with a soul-curdling _wail_ – drags a round and highly ostentatious golden mirror.  
  
Mairon glances up from his mound of paperwork, tucked behind a desk across the hall.   
  
“That had better not be some sort of hint,” he snips, his suspicion growing by the second as the guards drag the frame further over in his direction.  
  
Melkor does not immediately reply.  
  
The mirror scrapes.  Loud and drilling, the sound trembles through the leaves of parchment strewn across Mairon’s desk.  They are seated in the Throne Room, and it is early afternoon – not that it makes any difference this far down into Angband’s fortress, but Mairon clocks the time nevertheless.  
  
He is reminded of the matter at hand as the mirror’s base catches upon a dip in the floor, and the Orc pulling that grandiose _monstrosity_ stumbles in a lurch.  
  
Really though: “What is that _for_ , my Lord?”  
  
But Melkor still does not spare him a glance. The Vala’s dark blue eyes follow the progression of the mirror as it creeps ever further across the room. He is slouched, two feet slung up and over the armrest of the throne, and makes no move to offer help.  
  
After a long pause, Melkor flicks his eyes in Mairon’s direction – and he replies, at last, with a lazy throw of his hand:  
  
“An experiment,” he grunts, and makes no move to expand.  
  
Oh – ah.   _Yes_.   
  
_Well_ : that explains everything.  
  
Though, if Mairon is not sorely mistaken, he hears a slight dip in the Vala’s voice upon the words.  
  
Which is odd, as dips in Melkor’s voice do usually indicate something.  Though what; it is often unclear.  
  
Mairon glances back down at his overflowing stack of reports and the crude sketches of Beleriand that sweep across the first three pages.  
  
Odd it is, indeed.  Yet … not _quite_ odd enough for him to care.   
  
Quite possibly, Melkor has decided to pay more attention to his hair now, after Mairon’s snide jab at the Vala last week.  
  
And, if that is the case: then … _good_.  Melkor’s hair _is_ a mess. Also, it serves the Vala right for ordering Mairon to attend to two month’s worth of paperwork in the Throne Room, and for forcing him attend to it at this stupid new curved _desk_.  
  
Snorting, Mairon picks up his quill – and returns to his papers and his deep-seated, internal administrative hell.  
  
He ignores the way the mirror is tilted overtly in his direction.  
  


* * *

  
Five hours later, the situation has soured somewhat; and Mairon is not entirely sure his assumption is correct.  
  
After the sixth occasion he looks up from his desk to catch Melkor staring at him with the burning, thunder-blue gaze redolent of a starved werewolf (Mairon is familiar with the look, one could say), he finally loses his cool.  
  
“Is there something you need, Master?” He questions – and the words are polite, but his tone rings curt.  
  
He knows deep inside, already, that he is fighting a losing battle.  Simply … delaying the inevitable.  As Melkor gets what he wants, and the Vala clearly wants something.  Though what it is, Mairon is not so sure he is willing to give.  
  
As he has paperwork to do.  
  
Yet each time he gets close to a breakthrough in figuring our the dire mess that is their Beleriand situation, each time he gets within grasping distance of that one, mind-bending solution that he _knows_ is there and he _knows_ is close – Melkor breaks his concentration with some stupid, pointless sign.  
  
Mairon scribbles a note; the Vala shifts in his seat.  
  
Mairon reaches for a map; Melkor lets out a grunt.  
  
Mairon glances up, running through a thought; Melkor is lounging there, _staring at him_.  
  
And if _one more thing_ – he … – just –  
  
_Well_.  
  
“ _Well_?” Mairon prompts, perhaps harsher than intended.  The Vala has still made no move to break his damned gaze, and Mairon can feel his limited self-control wearing down to the quick.  
  
“Is there something you need?”  
  
Melkor, for his part, drags out a prolonged and languid smirk.  “Not yet, little Maia …” He allays, in a voice rich with mirth – and trails off, as though caught in a ponder.  
  
Mairon grits his teeth.  
  
Just –  
  
Just –  
  
_Whatever_.  
  
Sending Melkor one last scathing glare from above his desk, Mairon rolls his eyes, and makes the concerted decision that he still – really, truly, wholly – does not _care_.  
  
He forcibly ducks his head and glares back down at the navigation maps sprawling across his desk, quill balanced in hand. A lock of amber hair breaks free from the clips that hold it pinned behind his head, and it swings before his eyes.  
  
This entire week has been wearing down his nerves, if Mairon is completely honest – and the Vala’s harassment is hardly something new.  
  
Their infiltration plans had gone awry due to an unexpected landslide on the Highlands.  And then, after losing a large tarry of Orc cavalry under blankets of mud and rock, Mairon’s back-up route had been overrun with an influx of Avari Elves. Usually, that particular strain was not a huge problem and stuck to the Orocarni Mountains – except that for some reason they had displaced, and taken it upon themselves to start killing more of Mairon’s already dwindling troops.  
  
And … this was fine, “ _this is normal_ ” Mairon had told himself – and he was okay. Until he returned back to Angband to find a stack of paperwork so high it could topple Thangorodrim, sitting upon his desk, just … _waiting_ for him; and one outrageously distracted Vala.  
  
And so it is _not_ okay, now, that with these Beleriand maps not offering any alternate route Mairon can see, that Melkor’s preexisting _overt_ lack of assistance and disinterest … is now being coupled with such ravishing and infuriating _stares_.  
  
Mairon scribbles an angry note upon the left-hand corner of the map.  The desk wobbles, because it has been wobbling ever since Melkor brought it in. Melkor gave bad measurements, and one of the legs is too short.  
  
From across the room, the culprit shifts atop his throne; Mairon can see the Vala’s leg swinging over the armrest from out the corner of his eye ...  
  
And he closes his eyes, then – and tries to take a breath.   
  
One, two …  
  
Melkor lets out a sigh.   
  
Just, ignore … just …  
  
But he cannot help it.   
  
He looks back up.  
  
As for the seventh occasion that day, their eyes lock a hard, burning stare.  
  
It is a mistake.  
  
“ _What_!” Mairon finally snaps, slamming his hand down on the desk. The quill perched between his fingers bends into a _snap_. “Shit –” he swears, glaring down at the two pieces of eagle feather.  
  
Underneath him, the parchments shake – and Mairon can feel the desk wobbling as though an entire leg is now loose.  
  
“What _is_ it, Melkor?!” He bites, turning to glare daggers back up at the throne.  
  
“ _Woah_ there, Precious,” Melkor replies, a mock look of surprise arching up with his eyebrows. The Vala’s voice flows smooth like sweetened wine, as his lips curl into a devilish smirk: “Calm down, now. … Nothing has happened.”  
  
The pitch in his voice, however, does not seem to suggest that nothing _will_.  
  
In a mock surrender, Melkor raises his two burnt hands in Mairon’s direction.  Mairon’s face sours further, not buying the gesture for a beat.  
  
“ _You_ have been happening!” He snaps, pushing the quill halves to the floor. “For the last five hours!”  A rage begins to kindle somewhere in his chest, as Mairon feels his heartbeat quicken.  
  
He grabs at a stack of reports that threaten to tip upon the tiles.   
  
“Just tell me what it is you want.” He continues, yanking the parchment back into a haphazard pile and weighing them down with his inkpot. “I am busy.”  
  
“Hmm …” Melkor reiterates with the slow slide of a finger across his chin. “What it is that I want …” The Vala pauses with a grin, as he slides further into his luxurious stretch across the armrests –  
  
“Yes!” Mairon snaps. “Get it over with, Melkor, and let me get back to work.  For Eru’s sake, Master –”  
  
But Melkor cuts in.  
  
“What it is that I want, little Maia,” The Vala drags, his face taking on a darker lilt as he runs his eyes, slowly, down the tremble of Mairon’s chest: “Is to see that filthy, dirty red hair of yours splayed across that desk, as I press your face into the wood.”  
  
Morgoth twists in his seat, as Mairon stares over at him in disbelief.  One of the Orc guards shifts uncomfortably at his post.  
  
“You would look so good pinned there underneath me, Mairon, with your hair rolling down your shoulders,” The Vala continues, tiling forward from his slouch upon the throne. “And such fun I would have making you _mewl_.”   
  
Melkor sends him a leer and Mairon pauses, his hands clenching in two fists at his front, as for a moment he is lost without words.  But then …  
  
“That’s _it_?” He chokes, his face twisting into a blanche, as briefly, Mairon struggles to compose himself in front of the mirthful expressions of the guards.  
  
“How bloody _charming_ , Master,” he manages after another shocked pause, in a voice now dripped with sarcasm – as with the gentle grace of a cat, Mairon smoothes himself to a stand behind his desk: “So that’s it, then?  You have just been sitting there for the last five hours picturing what it would look like to manhandle me?”  
  
One of the guards lets out a poorly stifled scoff.  
  
“Not exactly.” Melkor replies, his expression unreadable.  
  
“And _meanwhile_ ,” Mairon cuts in, his temper becoming steadily less contained: “I have been sitting here like a harried slave-Elf, working on an infiltration strategy for Beleriand, on _your_ orders, and with no help from you at all because you have been too busy staring at my –”  
  
“Oh, do breathe, Mairon.” Melkor breaks in, his voice taking on a simper.  A cool smirk drags across the Vala’s scarred dark face, and the look is turning rather dangerous. “Nothing yet has happened.”  
  
“Nothing is _going to_ happen –” Mairon hisses, his fingers digging into the desk. “I do not know what pretense you are living under at the moment Master – whether you are bored or you are restless – but this work cannot be put on hold. We need to figure out the new navigation routes.  We are running out of time – ”  
  
Mairon takes in a frantic breath: “I am –”  
  
He pauses, then, as the words seem to slip straight out of his head.  
  
And what he is never _quite_ comes to light.  
  
For Melkor’s assault – if one is to call it that – takes the Maia rather by surprise:  
  
In one cut-short breath, more foul words of condemnation jamming in his throat as his tongue molds over a sound that never hits, Mairon’s head gives a violent, heavy lurch.   
  
The momentum thrusts him forward, pitching over the desk, as the breath is squashed hard out of his lungs.   
  
Somewhere deep inside the inner depths of his ear canal he can feel something _burst_. It is a splitting pierce that rings along his eardrums, and drowns out the very breaths inside the room. His forehead hits the desk with a crash – and he chokes.   
  
From the other side of the room, Melkor rises lithely from the throne.  
  
“ _Dismissed_.” He hears the Vala growl, presumably at the guards still lurking upon the door.  Soon slow, heavy clinks from Melkor’s steel-capped boots begin to strut across the marble.  
  
Stretching prone into his bend, Mairon tries to clench his hands.  His head in swimming, yet between a few breaths he can make out a distinctive _clunck_ as the doors to the room are bolted from the inside.  
  
They are alone.  Not good.  For Mairon wants to stand; and he cannot seem to rise.  
  
Somewhere to his left the clinking draws nearer; but the sound is twisted through a swirling drag inside his head. The noise tastes like copper, though he supposes it may just be his tongue.  
  
He feels strange.   
  
He moans, the burn spilling out of him like wine.  
  
He feels …  
  
Melkor’s footsteps ring heavier across the cold lacquer of the floor, as the Vala crests the threshold of the room.  
  
“Now, this is _better_.” Morgoth breathes, from a distance.  The chill of Melkor’s fána brushes against Mairon’s own as the Vala circles him, now, slowly around the desk. “I did tell you just to breathe, Precious… For nothing, yet, has happened.”  
  
Loosely Mairon manages to shift his arms, sending a stack of parchments spinning to the floor.  
  
‘No …’ He tries to groan, but the sound that breaks over his lips is no more than a broken, feeble whine.  _Please, stop_.  
  
But yet his head is spinning behind his eye sockets, and Mairon cannot push up from the desk.  Desperate his fingers twitch, digging into the wood – but try as he might, his head will not budge.  There is a sick and plying softness, now, that seeps slowly through his bones.  
  
Melkor has hit him with a _spell_ ; there is no other explanation. Words seem to twist in the back of his mind, a hushed order to lie loose and stay still.  
  
He cannot fight it.  
  
For behind him the Vala closes in, and grasps at Mairon’s thighs.  And under the grip of two thick calloused hands, Mairon feels himself be lifted, pliant, upon the desk – Melkor’s thick ashen scent sliding up his nostrils. Melkor sits him into a crouch; knees bent in some deep, subservient _kneel_ , as Mairon’s arms begin to shake under the weight.  
  
Melkor pulls Mairon’s head back by the hair.  
  
“ _Look_.” The Vala instructs, his chapped lips brushing Mairon’s ear.  
  
And for a moment the room again becomes a-blur, as the Maia tries to comprehend the order.   
  
But finally, he opens his eyes – to find himself staring straight into the mirror.  
  
It is a hot sheen of red hair blossomed across the table; his back is bent arched at a strange angle, and Morgoth stands behind him.  
  
Mairon’s eyes meet his Master’s own in the reflection, in a burning blue vivid cut of kyanite.  The look is _thunderous_ and grey, and it burns through the streaking gloss of the glass.  
  
It is too much.  
  
He can feel his eyes tip back ever so slightly into his head, but Melkor’s grip tightens upon his hair.  
  
“ _Look_ at you, Mairon.  All giddy and loose,” The Vala gusts, leaning further into his ear as Mairon’s eyes roll down, again, to focus back on the mirror.  “Such a likeness you share to those drooling, hapless pups.  I should have you whipped for your insolence.”  
  
Though, instead of a whip, Melkor racks a line down Mairon’s throat with his _tongue_. And Mairon wonders, in a terrifying stab of fear, whether he is about to be punished.  
  
But the blow never comes; and the Vala withdraws.  
  
“And did I not mention, Mairon, how I would have your hair,” the Vala continues, a hint of his teeth pointing through a nasty, crooked smile: “ _splayed_ across this desk.”  
  
Melkor tips, then, over the arch of Mairon’s back, to take hold of his clips.  And in the gentle click of two metal hinges Mairon’s hair is spilling down the crest of his back, into a glossy golden wave of saffron blonde that blankets his eyes.  
  
Melkor runs his hand slowly through the locks, and pulls them off the Maia’s face.  And as though following some silent beat, Mairon watches in the mirror as Melkor’s fingers dance in a twirl down his chest.  
  
His head drags slow across his Master’s shoulder. Something fey simmers below his flesh from the spell, and it leaves behind trails – burning sparks of pleasure that linger long after Melkor has moved his hand.  
  
It is addictive.   
  
And he is not _quite_ sure he likes it.  
  
He tries again to swallow, but his throat will still not accept the task.  A thin line of saliva, now, spills down his chin; he can see it glisten in the mirror.  
  
The Vala laughs, and lowers Mairon slowly to the desk.  
  
“That’s it,” Melkor guides. “Breathe.” And the words are gentle. And he … he can feel himself giving over, through the twisting of his head.  He is slowly giving in.  
  
He feels Melkor’s fingers hook under the silk upon his collar, fingers grazing across his skin – and the fabric is tugged loose at his neck.  
  
“O _hhh_ ,” Mairon chokes, the sound almost involuntary, as Melkor follows the exposed skin with his tongue. He gasps, his forehead scraping across the wood, as every slice of Melkor’s tongue sends a tingle ripping through his veins. Sweet _Eru_ –  
  
A pile of parchments digs into his stomach.  
  
He is so fucking gone.  
  
“Good boy.” Morgoth rumbles.  The Vala drags the silk robe down Mairon’s shoulders, exposing the Maia’s clenching back to the warm orange light bathing the room.  
  
And suddenly Mairon wants to ask – he wants to turn and ask Melkor what in _Arda_ he is doing to him, and why he cannot remember what this is. But as much as he desperately wills his head to tilt, and his spine to twist under the weight – his limbs do not cooperate. And instead he is left, lying there, to pant an open-mouthed staccato into the wood.  
  
“I have been waiting to do this for a while, Mairon.” His Master continues, as Melkor straightens Mairon’s arms to help him disrobe.  “Waiting to see when you would next give in to your desire. But you are yet so well-restrained, Precious … I am afraid I’ve lost my ease.”  
  
The Vala cups his cheek, his hand wrapping around Mairon from the back.  
  
“Just breathe.” Melkor repeats, and his words seem almost warm. “You may think of this as a reward, if you will, Mairon. For I ask nothing of you today except that you relax …”  
  
Mairon lets out a dizzied whine as a twist of panic strokes through his chest, and something _clicks_.  
  
Melkor –  
  
Oh shit, Melkor is going to _take_ him here – right on the bench.  
  
There is a roar, now, settling deep inside his ears; and it rushes like the far-flung crashings of a wave.  Mairon drags his head along the skin of his forearm, oblivious, as Melkor sinks behind him to face the backs of his thighs.  
  
And just as Mairon begins to wonder, for one crazed, breathless second, whether he is hearing the shores of Valinor – a tongue swipes hot over the skin of his hole.  
  
Oh.  
_  
Oh **fuck**_.  
  
Mairon’s head rocks along the surface of the wood, as his lips drag _hard_ across the desk. His eyes roll, in a gusted breath that shatters through his teeth.  
  
Melkor licks him again, in a swirl of wet tongue: simple, and _delicious_ , and twisted around his hole.  
  
Dear Eru –  
  
How have they –  
  
_Why have they never done this before?  
  
_ He cannot –  
  
“Uh _hhhhhhggg_ –”   
  
Well, for one, he cannot speak – but not from lack of trying.  The moan bursts from Mairon’s lips, caught between the clenching of his teeth.  
  
Saliva smears sodden across his cheek, and he writhes. Over the roaring in his ears he can hear Melkor’s deep breaths gust along the crevice of his skin, as the Vala’s fingers dig tighter into Mairon’s thighs.  His legs are shifted further apart – as Melkor dips a slick, ridged tongue into the entrance between.  
  
Mairon sobs, in an indecorous cry that gulps across the wood.  
  
Oh fuck ohfuckoh _fuckoh_ –  
  
The Vala’s nose presses into his skin as Mairon is vaguely aware, after a while, of his own erection nudging restless against his stomach. Melkor’s tongue works relentless between his thighs – but time seems to escape him as Mairon becomes lost in the sensation, stretched across the desk.  
  
Before he realizes what is happening, Melkor has breached him with two slick fingers. Reeling in shock, Mairon can do no more than to scrabble his fingers across the desk, in a desperate bid to find purchase. His mouth opens in a silent scream, eyes rolling back into their sockets.  
  
“Breathe.” Melkor reminds him, as he eases through the stretch – and the Vala twists around his hand.   
  
But Mairon clamps his teeth into his tongue, and lets the pain bleed through his limbs.  Whatever Melkor is doing to him – this twisted, blurring churn inside his head – every feeling is enhanced.  
  
The spot is hit in one expert, swiping _jab_.  Mairon’s hips jerk, frantic, as every muscle in his body binds in a _clench_.  
  
And as Melkor repeats the motion again … and again ... and again, and again, and _again_ – Mairon feels a desperate, violent need to _see_.  
  
Drool slathered down his chin, he fights the heaviness of his body and tries to raise his head.   
  
The Vala is working his prostate now with a flowing, endless precision, his other hand clamped firm around Mairon’s right thigh – and Mairon can feel every beat of his heart jolting in time with the thrust of Melkor’s hand.  
  
He is still so dizzy, so desperately, wantonly spun – as his arms drag a useless mess against the desk.  
  
But yet still – the mirror –  
  
For he just needs to see –  
  
In a jolt, Melkor bites hard into his hip, the movement timed with one expert, pressured _stab_. And with all his strength, then, Mairon wrenches back his head, as his lips part, _panting_ –  
  
And his eyes lock onto the mirror, through strands of thin long amber hair –  
  
And there is Melkor.  Staring over at him from above the arch of Mairon’s back; the Vala’s burning bright blue eyes are glazed, left arm working ceaselessly, tirelessly within him.  And there is something otherworldly about him, something untouchable and fey, a mighty god working Mairon into a bundled mess of nerves.  
  
Mairon is struck dumb – staring, blank, as Melkor moves to reach around and close a fist upon his weeping, _aching_ cock, as their eyes bore in a dizzied, warring game –  
  
And before he can control himself, it _hits_.  And Mairon stares – caught in some delirious, seizing rapture, facing the mirror – as his body jerks and begins to shake, and he is sucked under the swell.  
  
He calls out a stuttered, moaning shout – and thinks, of all things, of Valinor.  
  
And the weeping, glowing Trees.  
  
And with a delirious cry, Mairon lurches forwards in a prayer, arching upon the desk, as his face drops into his arms.  
  
Seconds, _minutes_ seem to pass in a blur as he pants, sodden and twitching upon the desk – before Melkor is there, position himself with a thrust, the head of the Vala’s thick cock weeping at his entrance.  
  
Mairon spills a moan against the wood, and tries to shift his weight forward to take the stretch –  
  
_Crack_.   
  
That … may have been the desk leg. Mairon blinks in a stupor, as Melkor snorts hot into his back.  
  
“Might have to send it back for repairs,” Melkor breathes, laughing into Mairon’s neck.   
  
Mairon does not respond, drool dripping from his lips. His Master’s languid thrusts begin then, to rock him, in a slow and gentle drag across the desk – as the wood wobbles underneath his knees.  
  
And Feänor kinslaying _fuck_ –  
  
“Uh _nngh_ –” Mairon tries to reply, for a moment worried their entire premise may collapse under their weight – but the call is neither effective nor, possibly, even really heard.  
  
His knees jar.  Behind him Melkor bites out a heavy grunt, grabbing harder into his hips – and hitting that fucking – that spot – that –  
  
Oh.  Oh _shit_ –  
  
Mairon clenches, his hips jerking helplessly forward. His head slams into the desk, as a second orgasm – or still the first, he cannot even really tell – is wrung from him like the burning coals of hell.   
  
He sobs, his cock dribbling more lines of come down the left side of his thigh.  It is a mess. He is a fucking mess.  
  
Behind him, Melkor’s pace begins to rise, as the Vala’s thrusts become more frantic, and somewhat far too rough. Mairon’s forehead, now, scrapes across the surface of the wood as with every thrust Melkor _piles_ into him, and he is lurched further across the desk. He cannot – He doesn’t –  
  
He grasps together the dwindling vestiges of his mind. And gathering the final strings of his strength – through this sodden, violent haze – Mairon tightens the muscles that stretch around his Master’s cock.  
  
He feels a _shudder_ rock through the Vala, as Melkor’s thrusts barrel faster and more erratic, and a deep and rolling moan rocks down Mairon’s back.  
  
And – ever so obedient, as he is and always was – Mairon drags his head up to again face the mirror, his blurring eyes latching on to Melkor’s half-gone, drunken gaze.  
  
And that is it.  
  
With a furling, impulsive roar his Master comes, blackened hands clenching bruises into Mairon’s thighs.  It is a throbbing, heady set of twitches that scrape Mairon into the wood as Melkor spills himself in abandon into Mairon’s clenching core.  
  
Mairon can feel the clutches of the spell that grasps him begin to loosen around his mind, as Melkor’s spell washes away through the orgasm.  And as the Vala comes to a slow still, Mairon slumps, a twitching mess on his hands and knees, and feels again somewhat lucid.  
  
After a minute, the Vala pulls back, and glances around for his own discarded robes.  Melkor’s face is heavy, drug-washed and sated – but Mairon does not catch a glimpse, his own nose still tipped into the wood.  
  
There is a rustling of movement as Melkor draws back on his robes and peels away from the desk.  
  
“Clean yourself up.” The Vala instructs, his voice flat, if a tad breathless.  And – just like that – he is retreated, leaving Mairon alone upon the desk.  
  
Mairon feels cold; and he does not reply. His forehead rests upon the wood, slick with saliva, sweat and come.  
  
From across the room, the Vala’s voice continues to float – though Mairon hears it through bursts of Melkor’s speech, now, as there is an increasing throb within his ears.  
  
“Come now, Mai … you said it … self … there is … much wor … be don……”  
  
He moans, tries to reply – but something is stuck –  
  
His head churns; he no longer really hears Melkor’s words.  
  
And how he wishes Melkor would just come back over to the desk, and offer him a hand.  For he feels faint now; he does – he feels strange and twisted, and as if he is going to faint –  
  
"........ron? .................... istening?"  
  
The words slick around his ears, as Mairon’s tongue turns thick.  Distantly he can hear a clacking, like the clips of a boot hitting the floor – but the sound is swallowed, as everything suddenly again turns soft.  
  
And before Mairon can call out a warning, or anything to let Melkor know – his arms drop slack and his fingers bend, as his head tilts this time in a crude, vicious earnest –  
  
And in a dull and crumbled thud, he faints cold upon the wood.  
  


* * *

  
The following day his desk squeaks, and Mairon is forced to copy out all the maps again by hand.  He does not come up with a solution to their Beleriand problem.  
  
The room has been cleared, and the wood has been wiped – and the mirror sits, innocent now, tucked into the corner.  
  
Mairon decides to never question the furniture again.

 


End file.
